


Petrichor

by TheScandalOfFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Declarations Of Love, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, I Love You, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, John Watson Has PTSD, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, London, Love Confessions, Lying Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Past Drug Use, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rain, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, Sad John Watson, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Kissing, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScandalOfFandoms/pseuds/TheScandalOfFandoms
Summary: Petrichor - The earthy, wet smell accompanying the first rain after a long period of dry and warm weather....John notices the scars on Sherlock's body and the two of them are confronted with emotions they had long put aside.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 197





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there! Wonderful to see you here.  
> I hope you're going to enjoy what is to come.  
> I am just going to put a little Trigger Warning here for mention of drugs abuse and scars.  
> I came up with this headcanon while binge watching Sherlock for like the third time in two weeks (and I am not even quarantined, I am still working) and a friend of mine told me to write it down so... here you go. I hope you deem it worthwhile!  
> Oh, and it is bound to feel a bit OOC since we have never actually seen Sherlock in love and I had to go with my gut. Sorry about that, I tried my best.  
> Have a good read :D

The dark clouds over the English city concealed the fact that the sun had come out already. A hint of rain was ever so slightly present in the morning air. In the case of a London autumn that was hardly a surprise, however the last few weeks had been particularly dry for London conditions. Sherlock never really cared for rain but recently he found himself enjoying the smell of humid air mixed with mist and the sound of cars driving through puddles. Mainly when he was out on a case with John, walking through the streets of London and bouncing ideas off each other. Well, it was mostly Sherlock stating the obvious and John listening closely, whispering a few exclamations of awe here and there, thinking the detective would not hear him. But Sherlock always heard John. Always.

The only thing Sherlock did not enjoy about the humidity was his hair getting even curlier. John once joked and said it made him look like a _Wookie_ , especially because he was so tall. Sherlock, of course, did not know what a _Wookie_ was and could not be bothered to research it.

If Sherlock had not been gone out all night, walking through the city and trying to clear his mind, or rather keeping certain thoughts away from it, he would not have noticed the sun rising as the darkness had slowly started to fade. But there was always a shade of grey covering the streets. Sherlock slipped his hand into one of the pockets of his infamous coat, searching for the key amidst the rough fabric. When his fingers found the cool metal and were about to pull it out to put it into the keyhole, the detective felt a cold drop on his nose. Out of reflex he looked up to find the source only to hear a loud, growling thunder in the distance. A sigh escaped the man’s lips as rain slowly started to pour. Still lost in thoughts he opened the door into 221b Baker Street.

He did not notice that by the time he had closed the door behind him, the clouds were crying as many tears as Sherlock had held back. The streets of London soon had small streams creeping along the lanes.

The stairs creaked in their familiar octaves as Sherlock went upstairs, making sure to not be too loud as Rosie and John were most likely still asleep. Once he reached the living room, he took off his coat and scarf. He stepped into the kitchen to take a look at one of his experiments, was however distracted by a whistling noise. High pitched but barely noticeable if you were to have a conversation. The tea kettle.

John was already up.

“Were you out all night?” John’s voice sounded icy. Years ago, Sherlock would not have cared but by now he knew exactly that the ex-soldier was hurt. Maybe because of something the detective did. Probably. Sherlock did not bother to look up and into his roommate’s eyes, no matter how badly he actually wanted to.

He liked looking into Johns eyes. They were different than those of others. Mrs. Hudson’s, Mycroft’s, Lestrade’s and even Molly’s eyes all looked the same to him. Dull and ordinary. But John’s eyes were different. There was something calming about them. Perhaps it was the fact that they weren’t monotone and boring, but colourful and exciting, like the man himself. Sometimes Sherlock caught himself staring into the doctor’s eyes. He mostly played it off as “deducing”, maybe he even believed it. Maybe he did not want to admit that he just liked looking at them.

“Obviously.” Sherlock talked quietly, as to not wake Rosie.

“Where were you?” John slowly went around the table and took the kettle off the stove. It had begun to whistle louder at that point.

“Out.” Sherlock eyed the microscope, to investigate more tobacco ash. It’s nothing he hadn’t seen before. He just couldn’t bear to look at John right now. He didn’t know why; he had never been good at understanding his own emotions. He just knew he did not want to see whatever awaited him in the ocean that was John’s eyes.

“Are you using again?” The bitterness in John’s voice was hard to overhear, but it had a hint of something else. Disappointment?

Sherlock didn’t say anything, instead he just looked at the ash and used the wheel on the side of the microscope to zoom in on the ash even further, looking for anything that might give him an excuse to stop this conversation.

“Look at me.” John demanded. Again, Sherlock did not respond. “Sherlock, look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not using again.”

_Don’t do this. Please, John._

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, expecting to see a disapproving look, but what he saw was so much worse. It felt like a punch in the gut. John’s eyes were filled with hurt and disappointment. Betrayal. Sherlock had seen this exact look in his eyes once before. In the morgue, when they were with Culverton Smith.

But this felt worse than anything Sherlock had ever experienced. Sherlock wanted to say something, but he couldn’t bring himself to move his lips.

“I cannot believe you would do this.” John poured himself some tea, his hands were shaking.

_I did not do anything._

“To me. To-To Rosie.” John gestured violently in the direction of his bedroom, were Rosie was sound asleep. A bit of tea splashed out of the cup and onto John’s skin, but the hot water didn’t seem to bother him.

_I would never do this to you, John. Not again. I know what it did to you last time. I would never do that to Rosie._

Sherlock wanted to scream and shout from the top of his lungs. But he was petrified, he could barely move. His eyes were locked in Johns, trying to look through the fog of disappointment. But all he could see was fear. John was afraid of him.

_I cannot lose you, John._

All he wanted to do is say it out loud. Say something. Anything.

“John, I-“

Finally, he had gotten himself to say something, but it may have been too late. John rubbed his face with the palm of his free hand.

“I know that what happened in Sherrinford took a toll on you, but I thought… I thought … Never mind.” John stopped midsentence and turned around, ready to leave the kitchen.

_No, not never mind. You thought what, John? What was it?_

“I am not using again, John.” Sherlock’s voice was barely more than a whisper, as he stood up and looked at John.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Your eyes are red, you haven’t slept or eaten in days. You don’t talk. You don’t accept any new clients. I know you, Sherlock.” John’s voice was bitter. Not just bitter, in fact. There was something else that motivated him to have that reaction. Something other than bitterness. But Sherlock could not find what it was, no matter how hard he looked.

“I am not using again, John.” Sherlock repeated himself.

_Please, you have to believe me!_

He begged and begged in his mind for John to have faith in him once again, for John to believe him. But all that begging was for nothing.

“Roll up your sleeves then. Let me see your arms.”

It was more than a loud demand by now. This time it was John who was begging. Begging to be proven wrong.

Sherlock sighed, his eyes glance all over the room. He didn’t know why he was nervous. He had nothing to hide, really.

But the truth was, Sherlock _was_ afraid. Afraid that he _was_ using again. He had not slept, he had not eaten and, as John said, his eyes were red constantly. He had been feeling off lately, unwell. He could be getting sick. _Or maybe he really was using again_.

But why? How could he not remember shooting up? Had it really gotten this far?

With his hands shaking he took off his jacket and started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt on both sides. John had stepped closer by now, his hand grabbing the cup of hot tea tightly, not even by the handle of the cup. The tea was still steaming, and the ceramic was in no means cold enough for it to not hurt. Perhaps John didn’t feel it. Or maybe he did feel it and simply did not care, like with the water earlier. His knuckles had turned white. It was a surprise that the mug did not break right then and there in his hand under all the pressure.

Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his skin. It caused the hairs on his arms to stand up straight, almost as if a chill had overcome him. Once Sherlock had fully uncovered both of his arms, he heard John breathing out, almost as if he were relieved.

The detective looked down on his own hands and this time it was him who breathed in relief. All the scars on both of his arms were faded, no fresh ones.

He really did not use again.

But what was wrong with him, then? Why did he not sleep? Why did he have this feeling in his stomach? Why were his eyes dry and red?

Without a word Sherlock rolled his sleeves back down and turned around to go to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” John asked, this time Sherlock could tell there was just regret in John’s voice, not accompanied by anything else. Just regret.

_Why regret?_

“Shower.” Sherlock gave back, perhaps a bit colder than intended. But then again, that’s what people thought he was. Cold.

They could be right.

“Sherlock-“John started a sentence but paused to see if his roommate was listening.

Sherlock had stopped midmovement, waiting for John to finish his sentence. After all, he was _always_ listening to his blogger.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock could not help but scoff it off. Old habits died hard.

He did not respond in any way. He did not know how to. He did not even know what John was apologizing for.

So, he went into the bathroom and got ready for the shower.

Once the cold water hugged his naked skin, Sherlock could feel the contrast of warm tears on his cheeks. Before Sherlock even knew what, his body was doing, his fist hit the wall. Hard enough for him to groan out in pain.

His dark, wet curls stuck to his forehead as he gasped for air, breathing in a few drops of water, as well as salty tears. The detective coughed and took deep breaths, after having turned off the water. Sherlock didn’t know what was going on with him. He didn’t know why he was crying. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t want to admit it.

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the bathroom door.

“Sherlock are you done in there soon, I need a nappy for Rosie. She’s awake.”

John sounded soft and sincere by now. He always did when he spoke of his daughter. Sherlock liked listening to John when he was talking about Rosie. He liked looking at him when he mentioned her name. There was this certain glow in his eyes, the kind of glow that made the raging ocean in his eyes calm and his voice became gentle and kind whenever the name of his daughter fell.

Sherlock hurried, got himself cleaned up and stepped out of the shower. Drops of water were still running down his face, but it was hard to tell if they were tears or water or both. He had forgotten to give John an answer while he was drying himself and putting on some pants.

“Sherlock, hurry, will you?”

The sound of Johns hand knocking against the door pulled the man back into reality and he quickly turned to open the lock.

“Sorry, yes. I am done.”

John eyed the man standing in front of him now. An apology from Sherlock’s lips was rare, especially when it came to little things like these.

Both men just stood in front of each other. John stared at Sherlock’s lips, doubting that an apology just came from them. Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, looking for the familiar radiant glimmer amidst the explosion of blue and green tones.

“The drawer in your bedroom is empty, then?” Sherlock was the first to talk after what felt like forever but was merely a matter of a few seconds. It seemed as if him talking pulled John out of a world far away.

“Hm?”

“The drawer in your bedroom. The one with nappies in it. I assume it’s empty already, since you were asking to come in and get some from the extra stash in the bathroom.” Sherlock ignored the rosé blush he that had appeared on John’s cheeks. The doctor’s eyes were still fixated on Sherlock’s lips.

John cleared his throat and licked his dry lips. Something that Sherlock saw him do when he was daydreaming. But now it was more likely that John was just tired. After all, he had a toddler to take care of.

“Oh yeah. I-I need to go the store soon. We’re running dangerously low on nappies. The emergency stash in the living room is already gone too.”

Only now had it occurred to John that Sherlock was barely wearing any clothes. In fact, other than underwear his roommate was naked. His skin was still glistening and a bit damp from the shower. As if John was caught doing something he shouldn’t have, his eyes quickly looked away, jumping all over the room. They stopped, however, when they met Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror, which made him freeze again. Again, his eyes were jumping but now back and forth between Sherlock’s face and Sherlock’s back, reflected in the mirror.

Before John could react in any way, Sherlock turned around to get John a nappy.

Thick, white lines made their way down Sherlock’s shoulder blades, accompanied by a lot of different scars. Typical scars from being beaten to a pulp, whipped. Abused. They didn’t just stop on Sherlock’s back. With his back turned to John, Sherlock had his chest exposed to the mirror which made it possible to John to see everything. The scars on his back made the seemingly invisible ones on his chest pop out.

So many scars covered the man’s body. One. Two. Three. Too many to count. It felt like a punch in John’s gut. John had seen a lot of scars and wounds in his days. He knew how to tell the difference between the scar from a whip, blunt objects or fists. He knew how to tell how old scars were. He knew that Sherlock’s scars were older than two years.

“There you- John?” Sherlock stopped midsentence as he had turned back around to look at the doctor.

John was shaking but frozen in place, his eyes not moving, focused on the faded lines and spots on Sherlocks still shimmering skin.

And then, as if something inside of him exploded, John started sobbing. He could feel his knees getting weaker and weaker until they couldn’t hold the rest of his body anymore and he collapsed on the ground.

Sherlock, for once in his life, didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. All he could do was stare at the man weeping in front of him.

_Why?_

With a nappy in his hand he was about to sit down in front of John, before he realised that it was him who made John react that way. His body.

Still unsure of the situation Sherlock put a shirt on in hopes that it might make John more comfortable. Sherlock knew that John was bright enough to see when and how those scars got on his body. He was aware that John could put two and two together to realise it was just before he came back from dismantling Moriarty’s network. And given the way John reacted, Sherlock knew what John was thinking.

“None of these are your fault.” Sherlock said, his deep and sonorous voice was barely more than a whisper, as he sat down in front of his friend.

John didn’t reply. He couldn’t talk, in fact it was a miracle he could still breathe. Tears were streaming down his face as he was sobbing uncontrollably. John knew he didn’t put those scars there. But he might as well have.

Sherlock looked at John kneeling in front of him. Every sob that reached his ears it felt as if Sherlock’s intestines were being torn apart and put back together with several knots in them. Again, there was this feeling that arose in Sherlock, something he did not yet understand entirely.

The scene opposite him reminded him of the day when John told him about the phone number he got from the woman on the bus – Eurus – and the text messages exchanged. The day Sherlock had hugged him, hugged anyone, for the first _proper_ time. The time when John told him to not pass your chance at love because one day it might me too late. Of course, John thought he was talking about Irene Adler, The Woman. But now, in this moment, Sherlock realised that while John may have meant Irene Adler, she was never the one that crossed his mind when John was talking.

It was John. It was _always_ John.

“How…How could I-“ John couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. Sherlock couldn’t bear to hear the end of that sentence. But he knew what it was going to be. Of course, he did. He was still Sherlock Holmes after all.

Sherlock fought the urge to lay a hand on top of John’s shoulder, afraid of what it would unleash in himself.

“How could I have done this to you?” John managed to get out an entire sentence, but so quiet Sherlock could barely hear it. Once he did hear it, he couldn’t hear anything else. That question floated around in his head, repeated itself over and over again, washing away anything else that occupied this brilliant mind. John had stopped sobbing, his hands were still covering his face.

He didn’t want Sherlock to see him that vulnerable. Not again. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see Sherlock. He can’t look him in the eyes. Not now.

But the urge to do so just grew stronger. He wanted to look at him. He needed to look at him. As if to make sure Sherlock was still there and hadn’t left. In what ever way John could imagine. John blinked his eyes, causing more tears to drop down, leaving a darkened spot on his jumper as he looked up slowly.

To his surprise, he could see the hint of a wet trail on the cheeks of the man sitting in front of him with his legs crossed. The way he looked reminded him of the day in the morgue with the “cereal killer”, Culverton Smith. The day he gave Sherlock yet another beating.

Another sob left his lips, accompanied by a cry of shame and anger. The doctor bit his lower lip and cleared his throat.

“I don’t understand how I could have done this to you.” He started out clear but got quieter with each word until it was hardly more than a breath.

Sherlock managed to look into John’s eyes. This time the sea of blue was infuriated. A storm had arisen, and Sherlock wasn’t so sure if it was possible to tame that one. Certainly not for him. How could he ever sooth the raging storm that lay in John Watson’s eyes?

But he didn’t have to. Because from one second to the other, the tide shifted and there was nothing but calm, calm but steady, waves in his eyes.

“I love you. How could I do this to you when I … when I love you?”

John’s voice reached Sherlock as clear as a bell.

Sherlock didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even breathe. It was as if the moment John said those words, time stood still. It was as if everything had stopped, everything turned quiet. Sherlock couldn’t even hear the usual London traffic outside. All that reached his ears was his own pulse, his own blood rushing through his body. And if he listened closely, he could hear John’s pulse as well.

And in that moment Sherlock realised what it was that was always present in John’s voice when he talked. He realised what it was that he noticed when John raised his voice earlier, asking about the drugs. It was love. After all, love was a much more vicious motivator than bitterness.

At the same time, everything that Sherlock had tried to hold back, that he didn’t want to admit to himself, came crushing down. He knew why he couldn’t sleep. Why he couldn’t eat. Why he his eyes were reddened, and he cried without any _obvious_ reasoning. There was a reason after all. Love.

He loved John Watson. With all he’s got.

_But I love you, John. I am nothing without you and I am everything when I am with you. You keep me right. You make me want to be alive. You make breathing not boring. In fact, you make breathing exciting. Whenever I am with you, whatever we are doing, it is exciting. Not dull and ordinary. Nothing about you is ordinary. You make me want to be Sherlock Holmes._

_I would be lost without you._

_I love you, John Watson._

He wanted to say all of that and more. He wanted to scream it from the rooftop. He wanted to touch John’s cheeks and wipe away his tears. He wanted to look into the doctor’s eyes and never look anywhere else, get lost in them like many times before.

But the words of his brother kept echoing in his mind.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Maybe Mycroft was right.

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to say anything, anything at all, a loud cry disrupted the heavy silence. Rosie was shouting for her daddy.

A tired smile appeared on John’s lips before he rubbed his face with his hand, removing any evidence that would show he had cried. Without another word he got up and took the nappy that Sherlock had gotten earlier. He left the bathroom without looking at Sherlock, purposefully avoiding it.

“Shush love, daddy is coming, don’t worry.”

Sherlock was left sitting on the cold bathroom tiles. He could feel another tear running down his cheek and he caught it with his hand. He looked at the glimmering drop on his finger. Something about this reminded him of the day of his funeral years ago.

That day was burnt into Sherlock’s mind. Not just prominent in his mind palace, but it was as if it was just constantly there, lurking. He could still hear John talking to the gravestone. Well, John would say he was talking to Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn’t grasp the concept of talking to someone if they were dead. _The dead can’t hear you._

Yet, Sherlock could remember every single word John said.

_You told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times when I didn’t even think you were human but let me tell you this: you were the most human human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So, there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

_Please, there is just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead. Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this._

John only found out that Sherlock heard all that two years later. But John didn’t know that those words brought tears to the detective’s eyes, still do. No one knew. Sherlock was never a crier, he never cared for emotions. They were too ordinary, too dull. But when it came to John, Sherlock wished for himself to be more ordinary. Because John deserved so much better than Sherlock, the heartless _freak_. It was never Sherlock’s intention to hurt John and yet it seemed that all he did was just that.

Even just now. Sherlock could tell how hurt John was, he could see it and he couldn’t do anything about it.

After a few minutes Sherlock finally was able to stand up, still shaking. It felt like there was barely any blood reaching his fingertips. The man froze before walking out the bathroom door. He could hear John talking to Rosie while giving her breakfast.

“Here comes the airplane, come on…there you go.”

A smile creeped up on Sherlock’s face. For a second, he thought about staying hidden in the bathroom and listening to the two Watsons having their fun. He then decided against it, straightened his shirt, put on the rest of his clothes and walked into the living room.

Neither John nor Sherlock talked to each other for the rest of the morning. John only spoke up once, telling to get Sherlock to eat something. But Sherlock just let the plate full of a typical English breakfast be and sat on his chair. His violin was in his hands, but he wasn’t playing. It was merely there to hide the fact that his fingers were still shaking.

Silence, aside from the occasional giggle coming from Rosie, reigned Baker Street.

John avoided looking at Sherlock. When their eyes met John would turn around and talk to Rosie or pretend to read the newspaper. After a while, Sherlock could feel John’s eyes rest on him, but he didn’t look from what he was doing, instead just continued “thinking”, by staring on the ground, pulling a string from the violin from time to time. He didn’t want to risk John looking away from him. He liked it when John looked at him. It was so different from when other people looked at him. When other people looked at the consulting detective there was usually, well mostly, a hint of judgement and pity in their eyes. But not with John. When John looked at Sherlock appreciation and understanding was all there was. And Sherlock felt seen.

Sherlock kept up his familiarly cold façade for a while. Until John got up and announced he was going to the store to get nappies just after noon. He didn’t tell Sherlock in particular. It felt more as if he was telling the flat, rather than his roommate.

John was already downstairs at the door before he made a U-turn and came back upstairs. He cleared his throat, not wanting to - or not daring to - say Sherlock’s name out. Sherlock looked up, hoping to meet John’s eyes, but he was looking at the ground and then pointed in the direction of his bedroom.

“Rosie is…” He cleared his throat again. “Rosie is taking a nap. I will be right back, can you watch her?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You don’t have to. Mrs. Hudson is home, I can bring her downstairs-“

“John. I can watch her.” Sherlock looked back on the ground and pulled a string on his violin.

“Alright uhm… I will be right back.” John turned back around and started walking back downstairs. Sherlock heard him mutter a “Thank you” on his way down.

Once Sherlock could hear the front door fall into its lock, he stood up and grabbed his bow, a pen and a sheet of paper. He put the violin up to his chin, leaning his head in. His eyes were closed as his right hand gripped the bow softly, yet firm. Right when the strings of his bow touched the first string of the violin Rosie must have woken up, as if she had felt that her father had left the flat.

With a sigh Sherlock put down his violin and bow and walked up to John’s bedroom.

He tried to put as much happiness into his voice as he could gather. “Don’t worry, my dear Watson. I’m still here. Daddy just went out to the store to get you some new nappies.”

He picked up Rosie and took her with him back to the living room. She calmed down a bit and stopped crying. Holding her tightly to his chest, Sherlock danced around the living room. Soon her sobs turned into giggles and laughter, which made Sherlock smile as well. Rosie grabbed his locks and played with them.

“Alright, alright little Watson. Down you go.” He tried to get Rosie to let go of his curly hair and put her down on her little blanket, among her toys. Immediately she grabbed her rattle and started playing.

He turned around, with no regard for the furniture in front of him, stepped over the table and grabbed his Violin again. His fingers had stopped shaking and felt warmer again. But John’s words were still coursing through his mind.

He glanced at Rosie who had abandoned her toys by now and instead was watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock had played a lot of times for Rosie; in fact, he had learned a range of lullabies for children to serenade her to sleep. And sometimes he would have her listen to his newly composed music. And Rosie would always listen intently, adoring the music. She had a lot of her father in her.

With his eyes on Rosie, he started playing whatever melody came to his head. The first few tones reminded him of what he had composed after Irene Adler “died”, but soon it faded into something else, something much more complex and deeper. It was as if all the words in his mind, everything he wanted to tell John on the bathroom floor earlier, turned into melodies.

At one point, Sherlock was looking out of the window, watching the raindrops run down the window as he continued playing. He stopped once in a while to write down notes and then went on. After an hour of playing, even though it felt like mere minutes, the detective realised that Rosie has been suspiciously quiet for a while. He stopped playing abruptly and turned to the toddler’s playing spot. There she was sound asleep.

Sherlock sighed and went to pick her up. He was always so careful with her. When he touched her, it seemed as if he was afraid to break her, as if she was an expensive, fragile glass vase. She was everything to John, and therefore everything to Sherlock. He would never let anything, or anyone hurt her.

He broke one vow; he would not break another.

Sherlock carried her to John’s bedroom, put her down in her crib and turned on the baby monitor next to it. He stayed in the bedroom for a few minutes, watching Rosie sleep. Even now already, she had a lot of similarities with her father. Obviously. Sherlock could see the bone structure evolving into the typical Watson feature. He could see her eyes with the same passionate sea blue as her father. Even her laugh sounded like John’s at times.

Sherlock quietly went to the window and let down the blinds and then tuned on Rosie’s nightlight. It was a little cloud with a smiley face on it, a present from Molly. Sherlock did point out that clouds don’t have faces on them, and that Rosie was going to grow up being gullible and believing in stupid superstitions. John assured him that that was not going to be the case, as long as Sherlock was there to correct her.

He didn’t close the door fully and went back to the living room. He checked the baby monitor there as well, making sure it was on and Rosie was still safe. It was irrational to think that something could have happened to her within those mere seconds of him walking to the living room, but recently he had found himself being less and less rational when it came to Rosie.

Once he assured himself that the baby monitor was working fine, he picked his violin back up and looked at the melody he had written down. All his emotions that he found to be ineffable were mirrored in his work, in this melody. A sonorous theme filled with light-hearted moments and yet somehow full of sadness and pain.

He had opened the window to let in fresh air before he continued to play. He started from the top. It began with a dark and low, almost empty few notes until it suddenly changed. Like the first sunlight after the rain, happier notes accompanied the originally grim and hollow theme. And after a while it was impossible to separate the two themes. You couldn’t hear one without the other, one alone didn’t make sense anymore. They fit together perfectly, completed each other.

The smell of rain got through to Sherlock’s nose and he breathed it in deeply, let it wash through his lungs, cleanse them, before breathing out again. The rain was barely more than a drizzle now, but Sherlock could still hear the patter. It seemed to compliment his melody in an oddly satisfying way.

_Petrichor._

That’s what he decided to name this piece. It was the only thing that made sense to him. The earthy smell accompanying the first rain after a long time of dry weather. Sherlock told himself that it was just about that. The weather. He didn’t want to admit that it was about him and John, the first time they met and how John changed Sherlock’s life. He didn’t want to admit that with John in his life, everything made sense and felt alive, like the earthy smell after the rain symbolises life and growth. He couldn’t admit to how much he cared for John, how much he loved John. The words of his brother were still in his head and he doubted that they’d ever leave.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

He began to spiral, thinking of all the time someone hurt John just to get to Sherlock, because he cared about him. Moriarty, Magnussen, Eurus, Smith. John was Sherlock’s pressure point, there was no doubt about that. And admitting that Sherlock loved John would just put him in more danger.

But he wanted to tell him. He wanted to touch him. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to _kiss_ him.

All he wanted to do was to be with him.

While he was thinking about all of that, he had closed his eyes, still playing _Petrichor_ on the violin. His legs seemed to be out of his control, and he danced through the living room. He had every detail of the flat in his mind palace of course. He knew exactly how to move, even with his eyes closed. So, he danced and played. He moved effortlessly, his robe following his every step, creasing around his body when he changed direction. Up on the table, down to the floor, up on the armchair, back on the floor. His mind kept wandering to John as his music grew faster but more intimate, both themes still merging together but effortlessly and smooth, as if they were meant to be together. Every worry about Mycroft’s words seemed to have left Sherlock’s thoughts. It was as if the only matter in his mind was one thing. To tell John how much he meant to him.

Maybe the high-functioning sociopath wasn’t so ice-cold after all. Maybe he wasn’t a sociopath at all. Maybe he was just Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who wanted to be with John Watson.

Lost in his thoughts and music he didn’t hear that John had come back from the story and stood in the doorframe, watching the man dance as if there was no tomorrow and playing as if his life depended on it.

John knew all of Sherlock’s songs, everything he’d composed, but this was something he definitely hadn’t heard before. Yet, it seemed oddly familiar to him.

The cold door frame against his shoulder offered good support, especially since he was still out of it. John could barely believe what had happened this morning, the words that came out of his mouth.

He felt like a traitor.

Not because it wasn’t true. God, no. He meant it with all of his heart. But because of Rosie and Mary. How could he do this to Mary? First, he started chatting with a random stranger from the bus while Mary was still there. Every night, when she was feeding their daughter and singing her lullabies, he was talking to someone else. Though, that woman turned out to be a psychopath who planned on killing him, the point still stands.

And now this. He had known that he loved Sherlock for a long time. That didn’t mean didn’t love Mary. He really and truly did love her. He wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for her. After the fall, she was the one who caught him.

But now she was gone, and Sherlock was the one who caught him.

And he owed Sherlock so much, so goddamn much. He was so alone, before he met the detective. Sherlock not only changed his life but saved it. And he had fallen for the man every day a little more. And when he saw the scars today, he crashed hard.

All those times he beat Sherlock up out of anger and frustration, after he came back from the dead, after Mary’s death in the morgue, even when Sherlock asked to be punched, he never thought about the damage he made. Or added to already existing one. He was a doctor, he should have known better. And yet, he took everything out on him. Because he was angry and frustrated.

He was dangerous to love. He was dangerous to be around. An adrenaline junkie who beat up his best friend out of frustration. Why would Sherlock want to be around him? Sherlock deserved so much better.

Yet, he couldn’t help himself but always come back to him. Whatever he did, whatever choices he made, he always seemed to end up here. 221b Baker Street, together with Sherlock Holmes. John had found that even just being in Sherlock’s present gives him the adrenaline kick he longed for. When he was with Sherlock everything else around him seemed to fade away and it was just the two of them against the rest of the world.

Sometimes John caught himself staring at Sherlock’s lips, wondering what they would taste like if he kissed him. Wondering how they would feel against his own lips. Wondering how much adrenaline would pump through his veins if he could just simply kiss him, with his finger running through his curls, until they ran out of breath.

Watching Sherlock dance, he could feel his heart beating faster. All he wanted to do was join in.

Both of them did dance together once, before the wedding. Sherlock thought that John’s waltzing skills were absolutely tragic and promised Mary that he would get John to not step on her feet. John felt guilty thinking about that memory. That dance, that waltz to Sherlock’s composed music, made it clear to John that what he was feeling was more than just friendship. He couldn’t look at Sherlock for three days after that. Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t really care about that, he was preoccupied with learning how to fold napkins and choosing the bridesmaids’ colour.

After a few more minutes of watching Sherlock dance and listening to the beautiful ballade, John had to yawn. He hadn’t slept well the last few nights, especially last night. How could he sleep with a toddler in his room and Sherlock out and about? He could hardly sleep when Sherlock in the flat, but when he left last night John couldn’t keep his eyes closed for more than two seconds. He kept thinking about all the terrible things that could have happened. He kept thinking that Sherlock left to visit the drug den and shoot up again. The truth was, that he had been thinking that Sherlock relapsed for a few days now. He behaved the same way he did after The Woman supposedly died, maybe even worse. What else was he supposed to think?

John thought that Sherlock proving him wrong this morning, might help him calm down and relax, but in fact the complete opposite had happened. If Sherlock was using again, there would have been an explanation for his behaviour. But now it just raised more questions than answers.

The look in Sherlock’s eyes when John asked him, yelled at him, to show him his arms, accusing him of using again, still haunted John. Whenever he closed his eyes, even just to blink, the image was right there, just waiting to punch him in the gut.

The doctor’s mind was so lost in his thoughts and clouded by fatigue that he didn’t notice that Sherlock had stopped playing and was now looking at John. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. It was as if John saw Sherlock do something that he didn’t want him to see. And if John had looked even closer, he would have seen the same shade of pink blush on Sherlock’s cheeks that had appeared on John’s earlier this day.

John cleared his throat and licked his lips, his eyes darting around until he finally managed to rip his eyes away from Sherlock and look to the ground.

“I will… I will go and take a nap.” He wanted to turn around but couldn’t. He wanted to say so many more things but couldn’t bring himself to move his lips. So, he just stood there for a moment, torn between turning around and blurting out another love confession. Eventually he took a deep breath, turned around and went to his room. He opened the door carefully, making sure to not let too much light in and wake Rosie. The darkened room was dimly lit by a soft blue light, coming from the nightlight cloud. A soft smile appeared on John’s lips as he remembered the discussion, he had with Sherlock about the smiley face on it.

He didn’t bother to take off his street clothes or put away the shopping bags with nappies in them. He took one look at Rosie, which made all his worries disappear, even if it was just for a few seconds, and then let himself fall onto the bed. Before he could even think about it, his eyes were closed. and he was sound asleep.

The sound sleep didn’t last long. It wasn’t long before the nightmares creeped in. Soon, John found himself standing in front of the Bart’s Hospital, a phone in his hands and his eyes focused on something far above him.

***

John wanted to look away. He wanted to throw the phone away and not listen to the words that were about to reach his ear. He wanted to run faster than ever before and not stop until he reached the rooftop and pulled Sherlock off the ledge. But no matter how hard he tried, how hard he fought, he could not move, and Sherlock’s voice penetrated his ears.

“I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.” Nothing about Sherlock’s voice sounded familiar, he didn’t sound like the usual cold detective he was. This was sincere.

“What’s going on?”

John’s could barely get the question out, afraid of hearing the answer.

“This is an apology. It’s all true.”

“Shut up.” John couldn’t control that impulse. He didn’t want to believe that it was all true. No. Sherlock Holmes didn’t lie. He believed in Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could shake that faith. “The first time we met-“ He felt the need to reinforce that statement. “The first time we met you knew all about my sister.”

“Nobody could be that clever.” John could hear in Sherlock’s voice that he was trying his best not to let it break.

“You could.”

Sherlock scoffed.

Then there was silence for a few second, but all John wanted to do was scream, but he was petrified. He could see Sherlock’s hand reaching out and before he noticed it, he was doing the same, hoping he could reach him somehow.

“This phone call is uhm… it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”, John asked. Internally he was screaming at himself. _Do something. Anything. Don’t ask stupid questions. Run and get him down there._

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t.” John wanted to scream louder, but he could barely talk. He looked at Sherlock, frozen in place. He saw him throw away the phone and then everything stopped. Everything stopped but Sherlock. Sherlock stretched out his arms and took a step forward. John wanted to look away, turn his head, open his eyes and wake up from the nightmare but he couldn’t. Instead he saw Sherlock falling and falling and falling.

And then there it was, the beloved adrenaline. With everything he had, with every bit of air he had in his lungs he screamed as loud as possible, hoping it would somehow make everything stop.

“Sherlock!”

***

Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking at samples in the microscope. He hadn’t moved since John went to take a nap, which was about half an hour ago. He was still trying to process the fact that John watched him dance and listened to him playing _Petrichor._

It wasn’t until he heard a familiar scream coming from John’s bedroom, that he almost jumped out of his own skin.

“Sherlock!”

The familiarity of that scream sent shivers down his spine and twisted his insides. It reminded of the jump. It reminded him of how much he hurt John. He could still hear John begging to be let through to him and begging for him not to be dead.

“He’s my friend, let me through, he is…he is my friend.”

In a split-second Sherlock had turned around and ran to John’s bedroom.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice was shaking as his eyes looked for his roommate in the dark.

Rosie was still asleep, Sherlock must have serenaded her into a deep, deep slumber. John on the other hand sat up straight, wide awake and shaking. His eyes were dark blue, mixed with grey, an ocean in the storm.

Without thinking, without rationalising Sherlock went over to him and sat down on the bed, facing him.

“It’s okay, it was just a nightmare. It was just your PTSD. You’re here with us, me and Rosie at 221b Baker Street.” Sherlock tried his best to talk calmly, even though his breath had picked up its pace simply by being so close to John.

“You jumped.”, John simply stated, his voice dry, not wet like earlier today. “And I couldn’t save you.”

“I jumped.”, Sherlock replied. “But you did save me, in every way.”

And once he said that, he decided to ignore everything his brother had ever told him. He ignored that caring wasn’t an advantage. He ignored that love could destroy you. In that moment, for once, he didn’t think, he _felt_.

His hands cupped John’s face and pulled him closer. He could feel his own heartbeat synchronizing with John’s, beating almost twice as fast as usual.

And then he finally did what he wanted to do for so long. He got lost. Before his lips touched Johns, he could see a tear drop down John’s cheek and then he closed his eyes and just let it be. He felt John’s soft lips against his own. For a second, he thought he had made a mistake. For a second, he felt as though he was falling once more.

But then he felt John’s fingers running through his hair and one hand in the nape of his neck and it was as if John caught him once again, like so many times before.

They kissed until the air they breathed out was the air the other inhaled and eventually they ran out and stopped. Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s, staring longingly into John’s eyes. They’d never looked more beautiful. John was looking at Sherlock’s lips in disbelief. Both men breathed heavily until one of them started smiling and the other joined with a silent giggle.

“I love you, John Watson.” Sherlock suddenly blurted out, not even aware of what he just said. But he meant it.

John could barely hear those words. His ears were ringing, his entire body was numb and somehow hot at the same time. Once those three words had made their way into his brain, he was catapulted back to Sherrinford. He had heard Sherlock say those words only once in his entire life in that manner and that was on the island, while facing the live feed of Molly Hooper’s home. But hearing it now, John doubted that even back then those words were meant for Molly. Even if Sherlock said he’d faked it, there was no denying that those words were initially meant for John.

John smiled and looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, saying nothing. Instead he just leaned in and kissed Sherlock again. His fingers curling around Sherlock’s hair and his hand gently caressing his neck, almost as if he was scared of breaking him.

John was wrong though. Everything he had imagined up until this point was wrong. _This_ was so much better than he ever could have painted it out to be.

For once, Sherlock had stopped deducing. He had stopped trying to control everything. He just sank into the moment and let himself fall into John’s arms. He could taste the salt of John’s tears on his lips, bittersweet.

But it had never felt better to have proven Mycroft wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I guess that's it. I really hope you enjoyed it! If you're feeling a bit down or sad and depressed, you're welcome to check out my other fic (platonic Sherlock X Reader) "We All Bear Our Scars".  
> You're also welcome to leave some kudos or comments if you enjoyed it but don't feel forced to. I'm just here to have a good time, that's all.  
> Thank you so much for reading!


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